


The Butterfly Effect

by devilsduplicity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5x04, Apocafic, Futurefic, M/M, Multi, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsduplicity/pseuds/devilsduplicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is sent to the future with Dean. Chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Butterfly Effect [1/3]

**Author's Note:**

> Written for imisspadfoot21's prompt for castielfest. There were so many amazing prompts, but I only had the time to do one of them properly. Mainly because I'm a word-whore and I get carried away. >> Prompt was, 5x04 fic...kind of. Present!Cas somehow gets sent into the future with Dean. Future!Cas shows present!Dean how his relationship with present!Cas will end up. Future!Dean and present!Cas watch...or participate. Would love some present!Cas/future!Cas with future!Cas not being gentle.

  
When Dean was zapped back to his present time and was snatched from Zachariah's seedy clutches, he hadn't expected the bastardly angel to follow him. Neither had Castiel, really, but fact was fact, and both Dean and Cas were several yards down the road before a third presence made itself known.

Everything happened a little too quickly for Dean's tastes. In the midst of his spin, Castiel froze, jerked his body in one long, terrible shiver, then realigned himself and glared daggers at the smug bastard watching them from the other side of the street. Zachariah had found them. He said something about following the traces of celestial ether, how Cas was clever but certainly not clever enough, and that, in hindsight, Dean's lesson probably hadn't been learned because of his damned trench coat clad companion.

The next time Dean woke up, he was in a ditch, and that only ever happened when he drank too much tequila.

"Goddammit," he groaned, then blinked open his bleary eyes and was greeted with a sign he would have been happy to never see again:

AUGUST 1ST, 2014  
 **KANSAS CITY**  


 **CROATOAN  
VIRUS  
HOT ZONE**

NO ENTRY

BY ORDER OF ACTING REGIONAL COMMAND

  
"God _dammit_ ," he cursed again, and was just about to scramble up the side of the encampment and find another car to hotwire when the strangled wheezing of another's breaths greeted his straining ears.

"Cas?"

He found him laying a few yards away, tangled up in a mess of limbs and heavy coat, and because he had never seen the angel unconscious before, Dean had no tact in stirring him from his slumber.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he taunted gruffly, then clamped his fingers around the other's slim shoulders and shook him until glowering blue eyes fluttered open.

"That hurts," Castiel pointed out, and was met with a roll of the eyes.

"Whine about it some more, why dontcha?"

But Dean let go and Cas manoeuvred around to fit his fingers against his own forehead in a gesture more pondering than natural. His brow drew up, eyes crinkling with dissatisfaction, and after a few moments of contemplation, he dropped his hand and stared out into empty space.

"It's muted."

"What?" Dean wasn't quite following this one-sided conversation.

"My Grace. It's muted."

Oh damn. Oh _damn_.

"Zachariah _muzzled_ you?"

Castiel nodded once, curtly, then lifted up off the ground and started patting down his own body as if it had somehow become this strange, foreign entity. He was analyzing the statistics of the energy within him, summing up what he could and could not do, and the longer his assessment took, the deeper his frown became.

"It appears my body now has limitations."

"Can you get us back?"

"I--"

"Don't answer that," Dean cut him off, already regretting his question.

They were screwed.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

The last time Dean had taken a romp through the future, he'd been hit in the head so hard he was knocked unconscious.

Twice.

This time, he was keeping an eye out for any incoming fist-shaped projectiles.

Oh, and the whole Sam-is-Lucifer thing. He'd keep that in mind, too.

So instead of sneaking into Camp Chitaqua like last time, he opted to make a loud, boisterous entrance by barging through the front gates and immediately ordering everyone around like a Grade-A dick.

His cover was perfect.

"Where's Cas?" he said to the nearest nameless face he came in contact with, and for a brief moment his mind flashed to the angel he'd left behind somewhere in the bushes (he couldn't very well risk having both of them caught), and for an even _briefer_ moment his heart dropped down somewhere near his spleen and he thought how wonderful it would be if he didn't ever have to see that drugged up, fucked up version of Castiel ever again. He didn't hate the guy -- not at all -- but seeing Cas like that was really just... sad.

And Dean Winchester hated feeling sad. Sad was for weepy little girls. Or Sam.

He was pointed in the direction of the same cabin from last time (surprise, surprise), and upon pushing apart the same brown beaded curtain blocking the entryway, he found Castiel sitting in the same cross-legged position getting ready to incite the same orgy with the same people Dean had interrupted before.

So, okay, maybe Dean was starting to understand Sam's annoyance at being stuck in a perpetual time loop, but he sure as hell wouldn't ever tell his brother he'd learned how to sympathize.

"Excuse me ladies, I think I need to confer with our fearless leader for a minute."

He hadn't been too attentive the first time he'd been flung into the future, so sue him. He'd been freaked out and had been trying, quite desperately, to cope with all the changes, all the rifts a span of five years could create, all the back flips in personality every familiar face had taken on, including his own. But he'd already lived through this short span of time, and even though the thought of reliving it once again terrified him to the umpteenth degree (added comfort of a less-than-useless angel to keep him company or no) the knowledge of hindsight gave him an incredible sense of foresight.

Or, in other words, Cas was being a sarcastic little prick, and Dean hadn't ever really noticed that tone of voice before.

It was like a slap to the face now, crowding against him like something leaden and cumbersome.

"Drop the attitude. I've got something important to tell you."

Dean swallowed when Cas rose, then cursed that damnable foresight because now each drunken line and wasted sinew on the ex-angel's body seemed bitter and poised and ready to pounce. He looked like a predator, with hazy eyes and a sharp, dangerous smirk, and under the pinprick focus of that hazy blue, Dean found himself longing for _his_ Castiel's more open, welcoming gaze.

"As you can see," Cas drawled, spreading his arm out in a sweeping gesture, "I haven't got all da--"

He froze on his own word, eyes widening when Dean took a step forward, and now that Dean was paying attention, he could really take in the reaction, the stark shock, the suppression of emotion which, quite honestly, was a bit of a surprise, because he was far too used to Castiel fighting to _portray_ emotion rather than struggling to hold it back.

"You're not--"

"Me, I know. We've been over this before."

If there was a god of Déja vu, he would be laughing right about now.

"What year are you from?"

"Two-thousand nine."

There, right _then_ , something flashed in the other man's gaze, and Dean's hands shook at how positively possessive Castiel now looked; his tongue darted out and swept across his lower lip, eyes flat, and dark, and narrowed. His mouth parted, and before he could even ask the question, Dean answered:

"Zachariah."

"Hm." Cas lifted a hand and tapped his index finger along his lips. "You said we've been over this before?"

Dean nodded, relieved at how accepting he was of this whole situation.

"Yeah. This is the second time I've been here."

"And the first time?"

The first time everyone died.

"Didn't learn my lesson," Dean shrugged, and then was pulled in, almost physically, by the line of Castiel's mouth, and how the edge of it curved up in a manner far too wicked to be angelic.

"That sounds about right," he said, and then pressed forward until Dean was almost certain he was going to trample him over. He moved past instead, not brushing shoulders, but, rather, _jarring_ them, and then turned to look at Dean when Dean didn't immediately follow.

"Are you coming?" His smile, which seemed to rise and fall like a tide, and swelled larger until the bitter enthusiasm was practically overflowing, twitched. "Or were you planning on leaving me out in the wilderness all day?"

Dean fidgeted, practically jolted into action, because he hadn't even told Cas about other-him ( _Past_ him, Dean should say.) so facing Castiel's intuition head-on was somewhat intimidating.

"I can feel it," Cas explained once they were both out of the cabin and into the open air. "It's everywhere. His Grace is staining the sky."

His said this airily, fondly, and then something struck Dean and he froze in his tracks.

"Are you stoned?"

Castiel laughed, a touch of weird, cruel kindness in his eyes.

"Generally, yeah."

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Castiel wasn't where Dean had left him. He took a few, private moments to die a little from worry on the inside, and then turned to the suspiciously mellow man standing beside him.

"I'm going to kill him."

Cas smirked.

"I can't let you do that."

"Why _not?_ " And, okay, Dean might have sounded a little petulant there, but, dammit, he had a right!

"Because if he dies, I die."

"Fine. I'll kill you first," Dean gruffed, crossing his arms. His body turned to rigid stone when Castiel laid a familiar hand over his elbow.

"You'd miss me."

To which Dean replied with the smallest of noncommittal shrugs, and then proceeded to move forward, ignoring the subject altogether. Because for all the creepiness this future version of Castiel entailed, he couldn't really deny the protective urge that rose in his chest every time the other man showed some sort of vulnerability. He was a walking, talking mess; a breathing work of art that had shattered years ago and was now dragging about as shards of glass glued one atop the other in a twisted monstrosity of something that had once been holy. Dean wasn't entirely sure Cas even _believed_ in God anymore, let alone if he was exerting any energy into _finding_ Him. By the looks of it, this creepy, fragile version of a once-angel was having a hard enough time simply surviving in a world that was never his -- a world he never should have been a part of.

His thoughts were shaken, too convoluted to make any sense, so he pressed on.

"You're him. Can't you just, I don't know," he waved his hand around, indicating some unknown angelic movement, "track him, or something?"

Cas let out a rush of breath, his lungs too full of faux smoke and the essence of a mirage for him to breathe properly. He smelled like incense, sweet and threadbare, and somehow that was both welcome and intrinsically wrong.

"Two-thousand nine, right?" he asked, and Dean nodded. "We're far from the same person." Which was obvious enough, but the way his lips smiled and the way his eyes frowned spoke volumes more than his next words ever could intone.

"I'm not him."

 _I never will be again._

Dean tried not to wince, failed, and when he was caught beneath Castiel's cold gaze like a specimen under a light, all he could do was turn his back and march forward, one foot in front of the other.

Walking was just about the only thing he remembered how to do.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

There had been some insult to Dean leaving him out in the wild, alone, back pushed uncomfortably against the edge of a tree root until he came back to get him, but Castiel had a divine sense of patience, and enough of a grasp on ineffability to understand that, when looking at the bigger picture, waltzing up into a strange encampment, walking hand-in-hand with Dean, figuratively speaking, would probably be a bad idea. So he stayed put, folded his hands across his lap, and sat stiff-backed on the ground, as if he was unsure how to let his limbs loosen and relax inside his own -- his vessel's? -- skin. The dirt was cold and the air was musky, and the scent wafting through the pines told him that the seasons were changing towards something a little more biting. He, however, was impervious to the chill and the relative silence.

There was no silence. That was a childish thing to think. He occupied his mind with compartmentalizing the different sounds that rustled and creaked and slithered and creeped along the forest floor and up amongst the furtive limbs of towering evergreens. There was life all around him, despite the death Dean had spoken so relentlessly about. Of course, the man's eyes had been turned only to those of his own kind; to humanity, and its apparent downfall. But there was more to this earth than people, more to God's creation than man, and it stung somewhat that Dean was so oblivious to these striking, undeniable truths.

Castiel was surprised that this much of the planet had remained intact. He had expected Lucifer to let the earth burn -- that his siblings and the Devil were all out to set this beautiful creation aflame -- and for this reason he fought so adamantly against both sides. It was wrong. If Castiel knew nothing else, he knew that it was _wrong_. Lucifer's extermination, however, seemed solely comprised of all the sentient creatures on the planet that he considered an abomination, or unworthy. The thought made a shudder slide down his spine, because although he was glad most of the planet had survived, he was still deeply disturbed that so many innocent people had been killed.

He had always been fond of humanity. It had taken Dean Winchester to mold that fondness into loyalty.

A beetle was scrabbling at the heel of his dress shoe when he heard it.

There was something very distinguished about the sound of a car engine rumbling across the road; about shouts of celebration and blaring white noise Castiel had caught Dean listening to many times before. It filtered through the air as if through a funnel. The first whisper of movement came tickling at the top of the atmosphere, and with a single, solid shove, the rest of the cacophony came spilling down into the angel's immediate presence.

Dean had told him to stay put.

Castiel was fond, and Castiel was loyal, but Castiel was also his own being, and could make his own decisions for himself.

Besides, the music was _Green Onions_ , and he liked that song.

Decision made, he blinked into existence just off the side of the road, letting the music guide his destination.

Only, well, maybe things weren't calibrated as perfectly inside his own head as he'd thought, because instead of teleporting 'just off the side of the road' like he'd planned, he ended up popping up smack dab in the middle of the street.

He blinked, confused for a moment as to how he could have possibly misjudged that, and then was brought back into the present by the sound of tires screeching against asphalt. He glanced up just in time to see the jeep go veering into a ditch.

Oops.

Castiel blinked again, and this time he was right beside the wreckage, bent over, peering into the window to make sure no one was hurt. He'd lost his healing powers before this whole debacle, so he knew for a fact he wouldn't be much help if anyone was actually injured. The best he could do was provide emotional support, and even that was iffy -- something best left to someone like Dean, or, better yet, Sam.

Unfortunately, as Dean had told him earlier, Sam was Lucifer right now, and so probably wouldn't be very sympathetic to their cause.

The first thing he got when he ducked his head beneath the bar of the jeep and poked it into the open window was a fist to the face.

Which, really? That was just rude.

Dean, also, had warned about flying fist-shaped projectiles, so Castiel supposed the fault fell on him for that one. He hadn't been excepting it, but at least he hadn't been entirely stripped of his grace when Zachariah had gagged him. His more extreme powers were gone -- time travel, healing, the basics -- but he still had his wings, his ability to sift in and out of this particular plane of existence and into another, the way he moved in and out of destinations as if they were little more than a single step away.

And he was still, fortunately, veritably impervious to clenched fists.

He heard a silent, muffled curse, and then backed out of the way when the door was wrenched open and a disgruntled figure jumped out.

"What the _hell_ ," he said loudly, then whipped around and pointed a gun in Castiel's face.

Castiel was unamused.

"Dean," he said, voice its usual low, gravelly self, and then he tipped his head down and gave the other man a silent warning. He didn't know if a bullet would actually hurt him at this point, but he didn't really feel like taking that chance. Still, the utter unknown of it all didn't frighten him in the least; if anything, it just annoyed him.

He didn't have to think long on it. Dean lowered the gun almost the same second Castiel had spoken. His eyes were uncharacteristically wide, something halfway hunted staring back at Cas in confusion. The angel could feel the press and pull of his emotions dragging their incorporeal fingers across his own skin, and nearly shuddered himself at what he found.

Dean, but not _Dean_.

"Cas?" Dean said, his finger twitching against the trigger of the gun. "I thought you'd burned the damned coat a long time ago."

  


 **~*~*~*~**

"Did you _see_ that? God _damn_ , I shot that Croat's ass full of lead!"

Yeager had done good today. He did good most days, but today he'd been _exceptional_.

Which was why it was such a shame that Dean had to kill him.

His job sucked. No one would deny it, because no one else wanted it.

"Yeah," Dean said roughly, not really one to dish out compliments, but the subtle smile on his face was enough to appease any of his men. Yeager was happy, ecstatic even.

Dean could see the signs.

Yeager's fingers twitched uncontrollably against his leg -- not a nervous motion or even a result of pent-up energy, but rather something far more violent. His nails dug into the fabric of his jeans, scraped along them, trying to dig closer to the flesh below. When he smiled, it seemed tight, and when he turned his head to speak more directly to Dean, it was obvious (to anyone who was looking) that his pupils were just the slightest bit dilated. Over time, the symptoms became more and more obvious. The man's laughter died in his throat, the tightness to his eyes deepening until it looked like he didn't speak because he _couldn't_.

Dean was going to kill him, and that... that really just put a damper on his entire day.

Dean pushed back the sickness that roiled up inside his stomach. There were so few people left, so few reasons to keep going, that for a long, serious moment, Dean considered letting Yeager live; letting him infiltrate the camp until everyone within was either devoured or infected. Enough. That's it. The end.

He turned up the music, trying to drown out his own thoughts with the smooth, instrumental style of _Booker T. & The M.G.s_.

He'd give the guy a beer. The thought flit through his head quickly, and he had to hold onto it, grab it and wrestle it down before it flew right back out of his head. He'd give Yeager one last beer; he deserved at least that. Every guy deserved at least that.

The matter was settled then, and Dean was all set to drive back to Chitaqua so he could murder the man riding shotgun, when a rather unfortunate event occurred.

Someone ghosted their way into the middle of the road.

Dean hadn't seen a ghost in years. He almost missed them, to be honest. His surprise was so sudden, he couldn't stop the involuntary muscle spasm that prompted his vehicle to go careening into the nearest ditch, because that was where vehicles often went careening towards. He'd been going pretty damned fast, but he'd slammed on the breaks and slowed down enough that, by the time he wrecked, the damage wasn't anything too sinister. It was mostly superficial.

His anger, however, was bone-deep.

" _Shit_ ," he hissed to himself, glanced to the right to make sure Yeager was alright (Though, honestly? He was kind of hoping the man had died in the crash. Made things easier later on) and then looked to his left and drew in a ragged breath when he was met with a face that was surprisingly close.

His first instinct was to punch the ever-living hell out of the idiot poking his head into the jeep -- he couldn't help it. You live in a world of violence, you learn to react in kind.

Still, all that accomplished was to seriously bang up his hand. Which should have been the first warning sign, really, but Dean was currently seeing red at the moment, and so couldn't really focus on anything except the blinding, furious urge to _shoot someone in the face_.

That deflated in less than a moment, though, because when he jumped out and pointed his gun, when he got a good long look at the guy; when blue eyes had struck through his heart like a stake, and the sheer intent oozing from the pores of the other's skin beat against his body like a physical weight, he realized it wasn't a ghost at all, that is was -- _Cas_.

And not just 'Cas', but _Castiel_ , the angel of olden days; unless Cas was playing some elaborate prank on him, and Dean wouldn't really put that behind him, the sadistic bastard he was. Still, he couldn't deny the uncanny, somewhat creepy feeling that the other man was peering straight into his soul. Plus, where the hell had he found that trench coat?

To confirm his screaming suspicions, Castiel canted his head to the right and peered through him in that intrinsically _Cas_ manner that he hadn't been subject to in a long, long time. The man before him was way too lucid, with eyes far too bright and far too clear to be comforting.

Dean was still floundering to grasp the foreign concept of Castiel reverting back to his old self when the stark realization that his men were watching struck him suddenly.

Shit.

Yeager, who had been riding with him, was disgruntled and a little bit nervous. The truck they had been following, that had thankfully _not_ fallen into a ditch, had come to an abrupt stop, and both men inside had hopped out.

He thought for moment whether or not he could successfully lie to them, and then he remembered, quite suddenly, that, _oh yeah_ , they'd just wrecked, and, _right_ , this Cas-clone standing before their shamelessly agape mouths had just appeared out of thin air.

He had a lot of explaining to do.

"It's alright," he said out loud, his voice harsh and commanding. "It's Cas."

The others knew of him, of course. Cas, Castiel, that weird human that they didn't know a lot about. The guy who'd come to them pretty much clueless in the ways of self defence, and had ended up learning his way around a gun quite intimately. Not as intimately as the women he'd also learned his way around, but, hey, that was just one more thing he could be infamous for. Cas had known their leader before most of them even knew about the apocalypse; he could be trusted.

They would also realize that the man who had teleported himself in front of their truck and had inadvertently made Dean wreck looked, acted, spoke, and generally _exuded_ like a completely different person.

Dean, however, could only deal with one mind-blowing headache at a time, and right now his mind-blowing headache was reserved exclusively for Cas.

He still had to kill Yeager.

God, his day _sucked_.

"Back in the truck!" he barked out, and was satisfied when the men jumped into action and followed his command immediately -- with the exception of Yeager, who lagged noticeably.

When they were settled comfortably back in their places, Dean waved his gun towards the back of the jeep he had been driving and gave Cas a pointed look.

"You too."

If Castiel hesitated, Dean might have shot him.

Castiel didn't hesitate.

He disappeared with the sound of rustling feathers, and by Yeager's surprised yelp coming from somewhere behind him, Dean was assured, even without having to turn around, that Cas had just angel'd himself into the back seat.

The familiarity of his exasperation with the entire situation was somewhat of a comfort. Dean took it where he could get it, and he couldn't get it often.

The confirmation was a bit of a relief, as well. The Cas he knew was nearly completely human; he'd lost his mojo ages ago.

When Dean hopped into the jeep and backed the thing out of the ditch it had crashed into, he glanced in his rearview mirror to find Castiel staring at him with an intensity one might only find on rapists or stalkers. Or stalker rapists.

"Look," he said before the probable-illusion could say a word. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, but right now just sit down and shut up."

If Lucifer didn't kill him, the stress certainly would.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Chuck's head was going to fucking explode.

Just because the apocalypse had tipped past nigh and went rolling down near, didn't mean he'd lost his job as Camp Chitaqua's resident Prophet. Keeping track of the supplies was more of a weekend job, really. Usually, he spent his free time holed up in his own cabin, drinking himself into a mindless stupor, just so he could throw out all of the visions he got onto the blank pages (or sometimes walls) that were available. If he didn't get it out, it would just keep screaming at him from within.

He hadn't stopped writing about Sam and Dean. He'd just stopped publishing it.

It was a really messed up situation, to be honest, because his mind had gone on the fritz the second Sam had said yes to the Devil, and the only thing he ever got from Sam's side of the story were blips of emotion. There weren't ever any instances of him recognizing his surroundings, or even being aware of the situation at hand. Dean had asked him about it enough times; had fought for some way to use Chuck's annoying 'powers' to their advantage. If they could track Lucifer, then Dean would have an easier deal out of hunting him.

No such luck, however, and Chuck had been knocked back down to the mantle of 'hardly useful'.

He didn't think about it much. It didn't matter; not really.

Still, the situation at hand was giving him the most epic, mind-boggling headache known to man, and no matter how much he drowned himself in booze, the flashes just wouldn't go away.

He'd had it bad when he had dreamt up the meeting between his 'characters' and himself.

But dreaming up the meeting between his characters, and his characters' past selves, was definitely a big fucking lead-in for the worst day ever known to man, _ever_.

He groaned, curled in on himself on the couch of his cabin, and tried his damnedest to block out the insanity that was beating against his skull.

He saw how it was going to end.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Castiel wouldn't shut up.

"Zachariah has sent your past self to this time before. What ever lesson he was trying to teach you, however, was not learned as effectively as he had hoped."

"Shut _up_ ," Dean said, groaning ineffectually to himself.

Cas ignored him.

"I was caught between, and now we are both here, repeating the same lesson, though perhaps on a different scale."

"God, do you even speak _English?_ "

Dean would have been more upset had Yeager been listening to the entire tale. As it stood, the man looked about two ticks away from jumping someone in a murderous rage. They would have just enough time to make it to camp before the symptoms turned violent and Dean was forced to kill him.

All-in-all, it was a bad day.

He was about to say something to that affect when he noticed that the jeep had gone quiet and that, for some untold reason, Castiel was now willing to heed Dean's command. He was a little late, yeah, but the angel had finally stopped spilling his entire story in front of Yeager, and for that Dean was thankful. The mystery as to why, however, was solved quickly; a glance in the rearview mirror revealed that Cas was burning a hole in the back of Yeager's seat with the intensity of his gaze.

Dean realized easily enough that Castiel, angelic being that he was (God, he was having trouble processing that thought inside his own mind.) probably sensed the threat in the other man, sensed the change of emotions, the way they morphed into something far more demented over time.

They were close to the camp by now, and it was all Dean could do to set his eyes forward and focus on simply not driving into any more ditches. The truck he was following made it to the gates first, and the men jumped out, all cheer once again. The mission had been pretty successful. They'd not done much more than shoot a group of Croats in the face, but, hey, in these times the little things mattered, and pumping a zombie full of lead was definitely an accomplishment to be proud of. It was practically a sport now; even the teenagers did it, and the recruiting age for hunters (the irony just kept growing and growing) was getting younger and younger each year.

Yeager twitched, his features going so blank they were practically set in stone. Not good. Definitely not good.

As soon as the jeep came screeching to an abrupt stop, Dean hopped out, watched out of the corner of his eye as Yeager did the same, and then circled around the back and snatched up a couple of beers. None for Cas, he thought consciously, then tossed one to each of his men and popped it open. The hiss and fizz was familiar and comfortable, soothing in a way.

It still couldn't distract him from what he had to do next.

Dean drew his gun, ripped it out of its holster with the speed and dexterity of a man with too much practice, pointed at Yeager, and--

And Castiel was standing in the way.

Dammit. Fucking _dammit_.

He nearly barked out an insult, nearly shouted for Cas to move his stupid angel ass so Dean could fucking shoot this man dead, but his voice caught in his throat the second Castiel laid a hand on the back of Yeager's neck and the man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Cas tilted his head, regarded the unconscious figure laying in the dirt just a few inches from his feet, and then turned so he was facing Dean, and Dean honestly couldn't help the intense sense of déja vu that went hurtling towards his body and smacked him straight in the face. He felt choked, utterly incapable of forming a single sentence, barely a sound, because the familiarity of it all, the similarity, just plain _hurt_. He couldn't explain it, but what was left of his heart had just been tugged clean out of his chest, and now someone was holding it between clinging, too-tight fingers, and it was all he could do to not drop to his knees and start gasping for air like a fish floundering for water.

"Are you going to shoot me now?"

He was still pointing the gun. Right.

Dean lowered his arm, his hands trembling more than he would ever admit, then swallowed thickly when Cas straightened out the angle of his head and took a step forward.

"Is he... what did you do?"

There were those words he'd been trying so hard to form. They came out tight and rough, but at least they weren't as shaken as he'd feared they might be.

"No," Castiel replied, turning his gaze once again back towards the body laying on the ground. "He isn't dead." A pause. "And he isn't healed. He's unconscious."

Dean stepped forward, edging closer to the body on the ground, and despite the fact that, sure, he'd have to deal with this issue eventually, the thought of having just a little bit of respite brought such a great relief to him that his shoulders sagged.

"Why?" he said involuntarily, and when he glanced up he was surprised (or maybe not-so-surprised) to see the angel staring at him attentively.

"We have things to discuss," was his simple answer, as if killing a man would only make Dean's schedule that much busier. And Dean couldn't help it -- he really, honestly, truly _couldn't help it_ \-- when he laughed at those words. Because, really? That was absolutely, unrepentantly _Cas_.

"Right," Dean said, then looked over Castiel's shoulder to find his men staring at him in confusion. Oh, yeah. He'd forgotten.

"Report back to the main base," he gruffed out, all traces of humor leaving his voice, and was satisfied to see them heed his command immediately. It was nice to be in charge sometimes.

Hauling Yeager back and putting him in a holding cell reminded him that, more often than not, being in charge was _shit_.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Dean was going to kill Cas -- both versions, if he could pull it off -- because worrying about a damned _angel_ so much probably wasn't even all that healthy. And the future one, the one who'd probably had a little too much dope that morning, wouldn't fucking stop laughing long enough to give him a straight answer about anything, so all Dean could really do was head back to Camp Chitaqua and hope for the best.

Cas could take care of himself; he knew that. He wasn't the man's damned babysitter. But they'd had a _plan_ , and Cas wasn't usually one to ignore plans, or disobey orders -- _Dean's_ orders, at least -- and part of him had thought, wrongly, obviously, that their fucking friendship _meant_ something to the guy, because you just didn't leave your friends hanging like that, but nooooo, Cas had to up and get lost down the friggin' rabbit hole, and hadn't even cared that he'd left Dean to fend for himself with a crazy junkie version of his not-quite-frien--

"Hey," said Cas, his voice grating through the air like a wispy piece of metal. "Stop thinking so much. Watching you is hurting my head."

Dean crossed his arms and glared.

"Then stop watching."

Cas just shrugged, humming a bit to himself some tune that sounded vaguely familiar, but continued to stare at Dean as if he was the most fascinating thing in the entire world. They'd both eventually trekked back to Cas' cabin once they'd realized that finding the angel would be impossible, and had been hanging out there ever since. Cas seemed okay with waiting ("I'm a big kid. I can take care of myself.") but Dean was about to tear out his own hair with all the pent up nervous energy coursing through him.

"He's probably found you," Cas pointed out -- literally _pointed_ out, his index finger directed towards the man leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. He, himself, was currently sitting cross-legged on the carpet where he spent many a day convincing innocent, naive women that the best way to 'connect' with the world around them was through sexual debauchery.

"What?" Dean hissed, sounding somewhat offended, and a pinch too protective. "Why would he do that?"

Was that jealousy Cas sensed? He smirked at the thought, flashing his teeth in a wide, vicious grin.

"It's what I'd do. If I was flung to the past, the first thing I'd do would be to seek you out."

God _damn_ , Cas missed this version of Dean. He couldn't get enough of him -- he practically soaked up the other man's presence with the intensity of his focus. He ached so much for this man; for the simple want to be _near_ this man. It was insane, really, how different both Dean's were; how different five simple years had made them. If Cas had any say in this whatsoever, funky rips in time or no, this Dean was gonna stay put for a very long time. Because he wasn't willing to let him go just yet.

"Why don't you make yourself more comfortable?" he said, inadvertently using a line he said to most of the women who found their way into his cabin. The hidden meaning of the words had been entirely unintentional. He did really just want to see Dean settle down and stop standing so rigidly in the corner. It was making him nervous.

"I'm fine," Dean said harshly, eyeing the carpet with trepidation.

Cas barked out a laugh. The look was familiar.

"I don't bite," he said smugly, then added in a dark, hard-to-place tone, "hard."

Dean snorted, but aside from tightening his arms around himself, made absolutely no attempt to move.

"You don't like me," Cas said suddenly, and was rewarded with the tiniest of twitches from the other man.

"I didn't say that," he argued, shifting around uncomfortably on his own two feet.

"Sure you did. You're saying it right now," Cas pointed out, dipping his head down as if to indicate Dean's nervousness.

"No," Dean reiterated. "I didn't _say_ that." He was being stubborn, perhaps, and he might have been lying to himself, even, but to some degree something inside of him didn't want to hurt this odd, fragile person, so he didn't want his discomfort to be made known. "I don't _not_ like you." And, damn it all, that had come out wrong, because the tone only served to make Cas quirk a single, thin eyebrow.

"But you don't like me," he pointed out, some sort of humor to his tone.

"No, it's not--"

"It's okay," continued the other man, flipping a hand through the air like simple gestures such as that were common and natural for him. Dean stared, transfixed, at how animated he was. "I don't blame you. You're just not used to it."

Dean swallowed, something dark and deep and foreboding settling into the very bottom of his stomach.

"Not used to what?" he asked.

Cas, whose features had changed about a million different times, finally gave Dean another one of those scary, seemingly vicious smirks.

"Attraction."

Dean blinked.

"What?"

"To other men."

"... _What?_ "

Cas shrugged, kicking his feet out in front of him and leaning back on his palms, his posture sinuously provocative.

"To me."

Dean shook his head, gave a little laugh.

"You've had a little too much to smoke, man. You're way off," he said, but his breath hitched on that last word, and his eyes widened when Cas curled his legs inward and rose from the floor.

"Am I?" he replied, then pressed in closer to Dean, stalking him like a predator closing in on its prey. He broke past the barriers of personal space, breached the boundaries of 'comfortable' and 'right', until he was practically nose-to-nose with the other man. Dean leaned back, braced himself against the wooden wall of the cabin, but other than the steady beating thrum of his heartbeat fluttering crazily in his chest, he made no move, no sound.

"Because I like to think I'm pretty spot on."

Was Cas going to kiss him?

Dean shuddered at the thought.

And it was weird, too, because despite the fact that he knew he could definitely take on this scrawny little excuse for a human being-- it was the last two words that really did it in for him. Human being. Cas, this one at least, was human. And that stung somehow, made Dean feel guilt and regret and maybe just a shard of the same kind of pain that clung relentlessly to the not-quite-angel in front of him now. Because even though Cas was currently threatening him in so very many ways, all Dean wanted to do was reach out and gather him up in his arms. It didn't make sense, and hell, it even made Dean die a little on the inside from sheer embarrassment, but he thought, maybe, just maybe, Sam's 'touchy feely feel-good' methods might work. That, perhaps, all Cas needed to start fixing himself was some kind of shelter, some kind of protection from the storm.

He had just steeled himself to do something stupid, like reach out and hug the pathetic (scary, somewhat demented) man in front of him, when the beads leading to the entrance of the cabin were pushed to the side, and a very familiar face came barging into the room.

A _very_ familiar face.

"Hey, Dean," said Cas to the newcomer, and he didn't even have the grace to take a step back, to put some distance between them.

Dean, the future one, had at least some propriety about him, because he froze to the spot and stared at the two people practically rubbing up against each other on the wall.

"Cas," he said in warning, his voice dropping to a growl. "What are you doing to him?"

"I'm just having some fun," came the petulant reply, and Dean, who was currently pushed up against the wall, rolled his eyes. Fun at his expense, sure. Had he really been thinking about embracing this crazed idiot not five minutes earlier?

"Quit playing games," said the other Dean, and it struck the real one, abruptly, that the other's reaction wasn't quite what it should have been. He was calm, seemingly level-headed, and though his gaze lingered on his mirror image, he didn't seem all too surprised to see his twin traipsing about.

Which meant...

Castiel walked in about then, his bright blue eyes taking in the scene around him with the same stoic, analyzing manner of a trained warrior. He, too, was unfazed by the presence of his own double, though his eyes kept straying back to the familiar form. Dean figured that Cas was used to viewing his own body like a separate entity. It would definitely make it a helluva lot easier to cope.

"Great," said future-Cas, and finally, _finally_ , he took a step back. He clapped his hands together, then rubbed his palms against each other in a potently diabolical fashion. "Everyone's here. Time for the orgy."

Dean froze, every muscle in his body contracting almost painfully. He shot a look at _his_ Cas, but saw nothing but confusion in the angel's eyes, and was then drawn to staring at what should have been the evidence of a reflection.

Other Dean was completely unrepentant in the scowl he threw Cas' way. He looked more exasperated than pissed, like a man who had put up with this kind of bullshit plenty of times before.

"Try to keep your libido in check, would you?"

Cas shrugged, flashed a grin.

"Jealous?"

"Nauseous."

The sudden bark of laughter that reply garnered echoed obnoxiously around the room. It felt hollow to Dean, but he blamed that on the odd effects of watching himself interact with another version of Castiel. The banter back and forth was somewhat... disturbing. He didn't really have another word to describe it. They seemed like strangers, at best, and enemies at worst, and the more he watched, the more apparent it became that Cas didn't particularly _like_ him... future-him... whatever, anymore. Or, at least, it sort of looked that way. The sarcasm was new, oddly strange, but the bitterness was hard to miss, and even though it wasn't directed at _him_ , technically, it... it still sort of _was_. Which hurt, actually, but he wouldn't say anything about it.

Cas, after quelling the laughter that tried so hard to take control of him, flashed his foggy blue eyes towards Dean, pinned him more thoroughly against the wall, then turned to the other Dean, the one that was native to this particular strand of time, and quirked a brow in the same manner he might otherwise have tipped his head.

"And what important matters do we have to discuss, o fearless leader?"

Dean, too, it was easy to see how he closed himself off from Cas, as if that natural chemistry they had between them hadn't just been severed, but had been stomped on, and burned, and the ashes had washed away with the coming storm.

"Are you blind?" The words might have been more insulting, but instead they were just cold. "We need to deal with _them_." He waved a hand in the general direction of their past counterparts, indicating the source of his frustration.

He wasn't ignorant to the looks Cas kept throwing his past self's way. It was as if the other man was incapable of focusing on him for too long; as if Cas was instinctively drawn towards the other Dean. Jealousy, under such a circumstance, didn't make sense. But the guy had an uncanny ability to read people, and his assumption that Dean was jealous of himself had been absolutely, unabashedly correct.

"I've already put in my two cents," replied Cas, and he crossed his arms with a little smirk, inadvertently (or perhaps _intentionally_ ) copying past-Dean's stance.

"We are _not_ having an orgy," Dean reiterated, whether simply to drive the point home, or because he had to. And the thought of that second option, the need to state that there would be no sexual debauchery between the four people standing in that room, of course brought to mind the rather interesting, somewhat sad realization that Cas, the future one, actually would consider doing something like that.

And yeah, sure, Dean himself (the past one) was a regular lady's man, but he had to draw the line somewhere, and even he had come across a few waitresses in his day that he wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

Cas seemed insistent, and Dean had no doubt that the man could be relentless if he so chose, but something about the other man's posture, about his stiff demeanor and the way he held his lips tightly together seemed indicative enough to give the ex-angel a hint.

"Fine," he said, letting out a sigh, and then he was turning once again, disregarding _his_ Dean in lieu of staring at _not his_ Dean. He didn't say anything, either -- just stared. It was unnerving, and it made Dean fidget.

"What?" he finally bit out, practically shouting the single word, because otherwise his voice might have cracked.

"Oh, nothing," said Cas, but his smile sang a whole other tune. It made Dean feel positively hunted, and for lack of anything better to do, he turned towards his future self and gave him an almost pleading look.

What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Cas looked veritably _hungry_ , and Dean didn't feel like being eaten today, thank you very much.

The other Dean just spread his hands out, palms upturned, in supplication. He didn't know what to do, and hell, even if he _did_ , he wasn't going to help. That was just his way. He had more important things to think about.

Like the angel that was currently burning a hole into his neck.

Figuratively, of course, otherwise Dean might have made some move to protest.

"What?" he said, ignoring how similar the single word sounded to what past-Dean had just said.

Castiel tilted his head to the side, let his gaze flicker from the Dean he knew to the practical stranger he was currently regarding. He didn't say anything, though; only continued to stare. He did it for so long that Dean was starting to feel antsy.

This entire situation could go and fuck itself, for all he cared. None of it made sense, and it was stupid and ridiculous, and he just wanted to go back to his cabin and pass out for the next couple of days, until the little ghosts from the past were finally whisked away once again.

But that was a whim that would remain unrealized.

"Alright," he said, pointing to the other Castiel and the other Dean. "Explain."

There was no question as to what, exactly, they were supposed to be expounding on. They started from the beginning.


	2. The Butterfly Effect [2/3]

"This is bullshit."

"You're tellin' me."

Dean bumped beer cans with Dean.

His mind would never get used to thinking those kinds of things.

"So you're stuck here until he comes back to get you?"

"Yep."

"Sucks."

"Yep."

If Zachariah's ass-hattery was any indication, the past people would probably be there for a very long time. Dean took a swig of his beer, peered over at his younger self, and then took a few silent moments to contemplate his options here. This could actually be a good thing, when he thought about it. The last time an angel had set foot on earth had been years ago. He'd been screaming his throat raw, begging to say yes to no avail for about the same amount of time, but no one had listened because no one was there. With an angel finally thrown back into the mix, maybe his pleas would finally be heard?

Aside from that optimistic outlook, he had his past self to think about.

He didn't really like to think about the Dean sitting beside him as "himself", because the differences between the both of them stretched further than the jackets they wore. Sure, on the surface they were twins, but it was obvious that past-Dean was more pig-headed and sympathetic. Soft.

The Croatoan virus had turned Dean into his own sort of monster. If he didn't block bad experiences out, if he didn't compartmentalize his mind and focus on one thing at a time, one goal, one mission; if he didn't quell his emotions and fight to remain level-headed, he would have died a long time ago. He would have died, or he would have gone crazy.

And sure, he wasn't entirely complete as is, what with his broken morals and shattered dreams; the helplessness that came of literally losing every hope he ever had. _Of losing--_

Yeah, there were a lot of things wrong with him, but he was tough, and he'd been tried, and he'd been beaten so many times his bruises had turned into scars. He would survive.

Past him, though? That guy didn't have a lick of sense, and he was utterly clueless when it came to the customs and traditions of this day and age. He had too much hope, fought too hard for Dean's tastes. It would only break him in the end; would only wear him down.

Dean took another long draw on his beer, his attention only half wavering in and out of this particular plane of existence. His mind was wandering, he knew that, but he'd had a rough day, and all things considered, he was pretty damn sure he deserved a break from thinking.

"Got another?" asked his younger self, and Dean just shrugged.

"Sorry. We're running low."

"Cas got three," the other Dean pointed out.

"Cas is a whore," future-Dean said in reply, and even though he was only directing that statement towards the once-angel's drinking habits, it somehow applied in vastly different ways.

The silence that threaded between them was short and heavy.

"What--" began the man sitting to his left, and then he broke off to take in a deep breath. "What happened to him?"

It was the very question past-Dean been afraid of asking Cas himself. He wanted to know, truly, desperately wanted to know, but he was also terrified of the answer, and admittedly very confused by Cas. His mind just simply couldn't reconcile the differences in character.

Dean leaned forward in his chair. His legs, which before had been stretched out and crossed at the ankles, drew in until he could rest his elbows on his knees.

He thought about it.

He thought about it for a very long time, his brow creasing in concentration, and when he finally found the answer he was looking for, he downed the rest of his drink and leaned back in his chair.

"Life."

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Castiel was hanging out with Castiel, and fortunately neither of them had a headache because of it. One was still an angel, after all, so there was some distinction between them. Both Deans had secluded themselves away in the kitchen while both angel and ex-angel were having their own little staring contest in the main room.

It was the future version of Cas that broke away first, though not out of defeat. He seemed to have something a little different in mind, or perhaps his attention span just wasn't long enough to deal with the bullshit of intimidating himself. He didn't know; he didn't particularly care.

The other two men were talking quietly to themselves, and then the other room fell silent, and it was at that time that Cas had an idea.

A craving, to be more accurate.

"Let's go back to Dean's place," he said, turning before the other could answer, shuffling through his cabin and raiding the various drawers. He pocketed a few items -- little orange bottles, small vials of what looked to be something decidedly alcoholic -- and busied himself by taking a general sweep of the entire area. For all intense and purposes, it looked like he was stocking up.

Castiel tipped his head to the side, watching the strange mannerisms of the man in the room. Dean had, tentatively, also told him about this, so the initial recognition hadn't been much of a shock. He studied his twin like a peculiar specimen, somewhat confused as to what, exactly, the other person was doing. But he asked no question, said no words, until a pair of eyes flashed his way, slightly more lucid than before.

"What d'you say?"

Castiel didn't think they should leave. He said as much, and Cas merely shook his head.

"Oh, come on. You've gotta learn to stand on your own two feet _sometime_. Might as well do it now, while you've got yourself to show you the ropes."

The logic was knotted, at best; twisted so thoroughly it hardly made any sense.

But Castiel didn't really have anything better to do, and Dean could take care of himself, so he finally relented and soon found himself being dragged out the door by grasping fingers.

Dean's cabin wasn't too far away. It was right down the road, in fact, and that served to put Castiel's nerves at ease. At least the hunter wouldn't worry about him too much. His possessiveness, which had at first been flattering and had since then quickly fallen to annoying, was once again rising to the rank of endearing, so he allowed it quite magnanimously.

This cabin had an actual, honest-to-God front door which Cas practically kicked open. He pulled Castiel inside by the sleeve of his trench coat, then back-kicked the swinging door closed and trekked further into the room, perfectly at ease invading the other Dean's private space.

"Take a load off," he said, then did as much himself, flopping down into a chair and kicking his feet up on the table. Dean hated it when he did that, _especially_ in his own home, but, well, Dean wasn't there, so he could just suck it.

Castiel remained standing, his muscles tight and his features tighter.

Cas shrugged, unfazed and unaffected, then started digging through his pockets and deposited his goodies on the table like candy treats stolen from Halloween.

Amphetamines. Rolls of cigarettes. Cocaine. Pot. Bottles of an indeterminable origin. Vials filled with an unknown liquid.

For Cas, it _was_ like candy, and he sifted through each find with the steady, warm excitement of a child opening up their first gift on Christmas morning.

"What's your poison?" he asked amiably, then continued to section off the various items he'd brought with him, separating them into little piles.

Castiel blinked, slid his eyes down to stare at the various substances, then raked his gaze back up to the other man.

"These aren't good for you." He could tell instinctively.

"Damn straight," came the reply, and then Cas proceeded to pop the cap off of one of his bottles, shook out a few small, white capsules, and then swallowed them dry. "Want some?"

There was something very wrong here, and not even just by obvious means. Castiel could see himself, his future self, and he was fully conscious of his own essence, of his own dwindling grace, but the gap between what he was now and what he was expected to become was something he was truly incapable of filling. He couldn't understand how he could fall so far, though in a way it sort of made sense. He was pretty much entirely certain that he'd do anything for Dean -- _anything_. And if that 'anything' consisted of walking a path that led to _this_ , then, well... yes. Yes, it made sense.

He swallowed thickly, caught in his own gaze, and he suddenly felt very trapped, even though it was obvious that his was the superior power in the room. His future self just had an air about him. The easy-going nature was friendly, open, welcoming, but what unfurled literally just beneath the skin was a huge swell of emotion, a giant coil of bitterness and anger and danger. Castiel was, quite simply, taken aback by it. Stunned, so to speak. Intimidated, if he was being entirely honest with himself.

Which he was. Brutally.

"No," Castiel replied, his eyes drifting to the outstretched bottle. He had no desire to feel the same ecstasy coursing through the other man's body.

Even though he was curious.

But, no. No.

"Hmm," Cas mumbled in the back of his throat, pulling back his hand and dragging the bottle of pills with him. "Maybe not amphetamines, then." He peered at the table, at the rest of his treats, then glanced back at Castiel as if judging his tolerance for recreational drugs.

Decision made, he reached forward, picked up one of the hand-rolled cigarettes, then popped out a lighter and flicked the flame towards the tip.

"Here," he said, watching the smoke rise up off the end. "Have a joint."

Castiel figured that this was a _really bad_ idea.

"I don't--"

"Come _on_ ," said Cas, his eyes turning from demanding to somewhat pleading. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I may be self-destructive, but I'm not suicidal." He flashed a grin then, all teeth and smiles and pleasantries, and it was that look that got Castiel to finally settle down into a chair beside his future self.

He leaned forward, fingers sliding against his knees, and peered over at the man with an air of weariness he usually only reserved for Dean.

"Two-thousand nine, right?" Cas asked.

Castiel nodded, his eyelids drooping slightly, as if he was fatigued.

"Then here." And the joint was thrust in the angel's direction, chanting at him, tempting him with little curls and wisps of smoke.

This was a bad idea.

His fingers curled around the joint anyway.

A little smoke never did anyone harm, and Castiel wasn't one to get addicted to anything. He may have rebelled, but he hadn't _fallen_ , and he still knew his boundaries, still knew what was morally right and what was morally wrong. Something that made him feel so good... there was no way it could be _too_ bad, right? Dean had told him to loosen up -- many, many times before -- so he was really only doing what Dean had asked. The sense of weightlessness was definitely interesting, and a weird coil of emotion jumbled up inside his chest and loosened his lips, making him feel, for all intents and purposes, quite ethereal. Which was just plain funny, because he was _already_ ethereal, so how could he be even more of what he was?

The twisted thoughts spiraled around in his head, but instead of overwhelming him, they only made his lips tip upwards.

Cas had abandoned his bottle several minutes ago, and now both of them were sitting on the floor -- one cross-legged, the other with legs outstretched -- and were passing the joint back and forth between each other.

Sharing was good, wasn't it? There was nothing wrong with this.

Dean found him like this. Both of them.

Cas smiled up at his familiar babysitter, and Castiel shied away from the glare his friend was giving him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dean demanded, barging into the cabin with all the fury of a freight train. His twin hung back and leaned against the door frame, shamelessly unfazed.

"Sharing a... joint," Castiel answered, staring down at the cigarette in his hand. His good mood had flown right out the window the second Dean had raised his voice at him. He didn't understand why the other man was so mad. Cas had said it was alright -- Cas wouldn't hurt him.

"Oh, are you, now?"

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Dean was... well. Dean was out of his mind or something, because his nerves were buzzing like crazy and he was overreacting to the entire situation, but he couldn't bring himself to _stop_. If he'd caught Sammy with his pants down, he would have applauded his brother for finally getting up enough courage to go out and have some fun. Cas, though? Cas was a naive little angel that could be taken advantage of so terribly easily, and the principle of the matter hurt Dean more than the act itself.

"Give me that," he said, and snatched the cigarette out of Castiel's hand, then whipped around and pointed an accusing finger at the other Cas. " _You_ ," he practically hissed, nose curling up in frustration. "This is all _your_ fault, isn't it?"

Cas blinked, grabbed the knees of his crossed legs reflexively.

"Calm down," he said, then opened his mouth to say something else, but Dean cut him off.

" _Calm down?_ You're taking advantage of yourself, and I'm supposed to _calm down_." His anger was steadily spiraling down, down, down into a hole that just kept getting bigger. "You're drowning out the damned world with all these fucking pills, dragging Cas into that pit with you, and I'm supposed to _calm the fuck down?_ "

It was when Cas flinched, when he drew his legs in further and curled in on himself like a kicked animal, that Dean realized he had gone too far.

The other Dean stepped in about then, muted heat flashing in his eyes. He crossed the room, put himself between past-Dean and his Cas, then crossed his arms and jerked his head towards the open door.

"You need to leave," he said. "Both of you."

Neither dared protest.

When they were gone, out the door and down the road without a word spoken between them, Dean turned back to Cas and regarded him for a very long time.

"Get up," he said, uncrossing his arms, and though he'd meant to be compassionate, he only sounded cold.

"No," Cas said in reply, so coiled up by now that his shoulders were hunched remarkably forward and he was practically curled up in the fetal position on Dean's dirty wooden floor.

Dean sighed, turned to his little kitchen area and poured himself a glass of warm scotch. When Cas didn't get up immediately to demand a glass of his own, he knew something was definitely wrong.

Not that he'd ask about it. They were way past that. Dean didn't question why Cas did what he did, and Cas didn't question why Dean did what he did. The steady decline of morals had been inevitable, but at least this way they didn't grow to _actually_ hate each other; they just disliked each other every now and then.

Cas had left the building a long time ago. Dean was bitter about that, and he downed his cup and refilled it to make himself forget his own emotions.

Dean had stopped caring a long time ago. Cas had been hurt because of that, and so had withdrawn into himself to try and handle his human emotions on his own.

They were both a little fucked up.

"Stop whining," Dean barked out gruffly, drowning his tone of voice with another shot. He was _trying_ here, dammit, and he couldn't even do that right.

Cas didn't care. He sort of gave a little chuckle, though with his face buried in his arms, it was hard to tell.

"No," he mumbled again, and now he was just being petulant, but he _wanted_ to act childish, and that was just that.

There was a sigh to break the monotony of silence, which was quickly accompanied by harsh footsteps clacking against the wood. Two booted feet came into view, and Cas didn't bother to look up or attempt eye contact. He was completely satisfied to sit there and study those shoes as if they were his last lifeline to sanity.

Dean broke a rule.

"What's wrong?"

They never asked each other that question. It was always either a blatant disregard of the other's feelings, or a simple understanding that some things were best left unsaid. They'd worked together in that manner for years, and though the slip of their friendship had been about as pleasant as a knife sliding through skin, it had been, on many accounts, the only way to cope.

Cas did glance up at that one, his brows knitting together out of confusion.

"What's it to ya'?"

And, yeah, he might have sounded horribly defensive, but Dean didn't ask things like that, and Cas didn't really think the other man was capable of sympathy. He smelt suspicion, but he'd been wrong before. It was hard to always be right when you were always high. Cas only had about a ninety-five percent perfection rate.

Dean, for his part, felt like grinding his teeth together and just giving up, but the reappearance of their past selves had struck something in him that had been laying long dormant. Being witness to his other self's intensely protective nature had made him live vicariously for just half a moment.

Half a moment was all he needed to realize that he didn't hate Cas, and that, okay, maybe he was a dick, and maybe he had some attitude problems, but he still sort of wanted to protect the guy. And for a while he'd thought that Cas didn't need protecting, because they'd shown him the ropes, taught him how to use a gun, how to shoot down a damned Croat in the blink of an eye with little to no reaction time whatsoever; had taught him self-defense, and how to drink, and how to gamble, and how getting laid was totally awesome. He'd taught him a lot of things, and then had set him loose in that big, wide, dangerous world, and he'd felt a little cold because the only person he had left obviously didn't need looking after any more.

Only, he did.

Cas needed to be protected.

From himself.

Shaking his head, Dean set his glass on the table with a sigh. Then, without warning, he folded his legs and settled down on the ground beside the other man, sitting close enough that their knees clanked together.

"Spill."

Cas stared at the point where their bodies touched for longer than was absolutely necessary. He was drawn to it, though, as if the slight heat of Dean's clothed knee scraping against the edge of his jeans was some sort of lifeline.

"Nothing to say," he said back, licking his bottom lip.

"Bullshit," Dean replied, stiff and unmoving. "I'm not gonna ask again."

Sure, it was a threat, but Dean didn't have a lot of time to waste and needed to get to the heart of the matter before he closed up again like he always did.

Cas sensed this, because he was just good at sensing the subtleties that made up Dean's psyche -- he'd had plenty of practice. So instead of avoiding the subject, again, he opted to lean forward and lay his head in his hands, sighing a sigh so deep, it rattled _Dean's_ bones.

"He doesn't like me."

Dean had to do a double-take at that one.

"Who? Castiel?"

Cas shook his head, smiling slightly, though the motion was hollow and unfulfilled.

"How can I not like myself?" he asked, touch of humor to his voice, and though he was only kidding, Dean could definitely think of at least one person who didn't like himself.

He didn't respond, only waited.

Cas continued, "No. You. You don't like me."

The silence that followed was absolutely dreadful. Were they really having this talk? It all seemed entirely too surreal. There Dean was, trying to console the only person who had stuck with him through it all, and now things had taken a decidedly awkward turn.

"That's not true," Dean hedged, eying the guy with trepidation.

Cas barked out a cough that was somewhat similar to a laugh.

"You can lie to yourself all you want, Dean. But you don't like me."

"Don't put words in my mouth," was the harsh reply.

"You won't say anything otherwise."

And sure, it had been a low blow, but it was also entirely true. When Dean Winchester didn't want to talk, Dean Winchester didn't talk. And feelings? Those were something he liked to keep blissfully silent.

"Look," he said coldly, jerking up off of the floor and stretching his legs far enough to take him to the other side of the room. "I'm just trying to help. You don't have to be all-- I just want to-- Fuck, I don't even know why I _try_." He ran a hand through his hair, slid it down the side of his face, then spun around and gripped the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Fine," he bit out. "Think what you want."

A chest was pressed flush against his back half a moment later, and Dean felt extremely stupid for letting anyone sneak up on him like that. When Castiel spoke, though, instead of relaxing, his body only tensed up all the more.

" _Do_ you like me, Dean?" he asked, his mouth barely a whisper away from resting against the curve of Dean's neck.

Dean shivered, felt like whipping around and socking Cas in the jaw, but resisted the urge and forced his heart to stop thumping so violently in his chest. Cas was practically a nymphomaniac, and the only person Dean had to blame for that was himself. He'd shown the angel decadence, had thrown every immoral satisfaction in the other's face, and had watched as his grace burned ever so slowly from his body. Instead of consoling him, though, instead of trying to understand, he'd had way too many problems to deal with to focus on anyone else for too long -- _Sam_ \-- and so had done the only thing he knew to do: he'd taken all of the worldly pleasure that he'd once used to hide behind, and had pushed it all onto the other man.

Cas had taken to sex quite well. Dean knew from personal experience, and he supposed that's what hurt all the more. They'd been close, once; closer than anyone knew. And somewhere along the way, everything had just... fallen apart.

The memory of jagged lines and rough, masculine curves was pressed harshly into his spine, mocking him with an intimacy that had been ripped away from him; mocking him with the promise of something he could never have again.

It used to be about something more than sex. Now, carnal pleasure was all Cas sought.

That was alright, though. Dean had nothing else to give.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

The early evening found Dean and Cas sitting on the steps just outside of one of the cabins. Dean was hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and Castiel sat stiff-backed beside him, though his posture was a little more fluid than before. The silence between them was forced and awkward and nearly painful, but it seemed nothing could keep it from stretching further, invading the night like something physical. Neither one of them really wanted to talk about what had just happened, about Dean's freak-out and the subsequent yelling, but something had to be said, and in the end, it was Dean who cracked.

"You're really a piece of work, you know that?"

No apology, of course. He was convinced he was in the right, and so he would fight tooth and nail to prove it.

Castiel canted his head to the side just enough to regard the other out of the corner of his eye.

"I did nothing wrong," he pointed out, and though he didn't really mean to sound high and mighty, the holier-than-thou voice was blatantly obvious in his tone.

Leave it to an angel to profess holiness after having just smoked a joint.

That was where the conversation started to derail.

"Really?" Dean shook his head, stiffened up until his features were as cold as stone. " _Really?_ You thought sharing a good 'ole toke with your evil twin was a perfectly normal thing to do?"

"This situation could hardly be classified as 'normal'," Cas replied, his own presence clenching in on itself until he'd veritably clammed up emotionally.

Dean was about two seconds away from beating something with a stick.

" _Cas_ ," he said, then leaped up and twirled around to point an accusing finger at his friend. "You're just-- I don't even know how to _handle_ you. Look, if you don't wanna cooperate, if you don't wanna fucking be _around_ me, all you've gotta do is leave. Door's open, it swings both ways, got it? I'm not--"

He twisted again, sucked in a deep, burning breath, and stared out at the slowly darkening sky, tried his hardest to gather his thoughts and calm his nerves, but currently they were buzzing around like vicious bees, and it took everything within him to not whirl around and introduce Castiel's face to his fist.

Again.

Cas didn't move, didn't bother to waste a breath on the one-sided conversation he was currently witnessing. Though, for every rising word, his eyes had gotten rounder, more confused, until he was left staring at Dean's back with no way to respond to the emotion he felt rolling off of the other in waves. Castiel could barely grasp the reasoning behind Dean's frustration, only that he _was_ upset, and it was apparently the angel's fault, somehow, and therefore it was his duty to fix whatever wrong he had committed.

People were just plain confusing, if you asked him.

The sound of shuffling fabric broke the stillness in the air, and a moment later Cas was standing beside Dean, shoulder-to-shoulder, peering up at the night sky with the same intensity as the hunter. Nothing was said for a very long time, but unspoken things were felt, breaths curling out into the air with a coolness that better calmed the anger that had been suffocating the general area before.

Even though the world was ending, life, of all shapes and sizes, kept moving on. It was how it had always been, how it always _would_ be, Devil or no, and there was something almost comforting in the monotony, the very drum beat, of existence.

Castiel could find peace in these things.

Dean needed more.

Dean was... Cas had a hard time putting his name to a specific personality. It was hard to pinpoint what made that particular human tick, and the mystery of it all, the err of judgment and imperfections that littered his frame, the purity and marred spirit, the kind heart, it was all an intriguing enigma that drew the angel in like a moth to a flame.

Relating Dean to fire was definitely an appropriate allegory. He could be warm at times, and bright, and wholly comforting. And at other times he could be brash, and fierce, and raging. He flipped like a switch, and Castiel simply didn't know how to handle him. He didn't know what to do to make things better, because Dean needed someone who was well accustomed to human ways, who could grasp his jokes and toss in their own remarks; who could soothe his frustration with logic and reason and the kind of knowledge only a native human could ever really possess.

"I'm sorry."

Apologizing was the only thing Castiel knew to do.

Dean deflated immediately. His shoulders slumped forward in defeat, and after another long, several minutes of staring up at the sky, he finally lowered his head and let his gaze burn a hole through the dirt.

"It's okay, Cas," he relented, and Castiel took note of how his clenched fingers loosened, how they pressed into his thighs instead, rose up and curled around the belt loops of his pants.

Castiel nodded once, dipped his head down then back up, and his eyes traveled from the hem of Dean's pants up to his curious, world-weary eyes.

What next? Cas had served to quell Dean's anger, sure, but now he just looked _sad_ and that was almost worse. He'd apologized, which was something he figured would be the right thing to do, but after that he was treading on tentative territory, with no indication of how to continue on from there. Cas wanted to fix this, somehow, and he really had no idea where to start.

Except.

But, no. Dean wouldn't like that.

Only...

Sam had suggested it once, and Castiel had tucked it away in his mind for further consideration at another time, but he'd never had a reason to utilize the particular strategy that the younger Winchester brother had proposed.

Until now.

Well. In the very least, it wouldn't _hurt_ matters.

Castiel took in a breath, steeled himself for what he was about to do -- he only knew the technique in theory, had seen it occur between others, but had never before had occasion to do it himself -- and turned to Dean with a steady stance.

Dean watched him, his relaxed, somewhat depressed mood sliding into suspicion.

"What're you doin--"

Cas stepped forward, thoroughly invaded his personal space, then set his chin atop Dean's shoulder and wrapped his arms stiffly around the other's waist. He tugged the human closer, pulled him into the tight circle of his arms, until their chests were pressed flush together and the other's warmth seeped into the layers of his trench coat.

Several seconds passed while their bodies got accustomed to this new shift in positions.

"Uh, Cas?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and shuffling around in unmoving arms. "What do you think you're doing?"

Castiel didn't move his body, but lifted his head until he was literally nose-to-nose with Dean. The proximity made Dean go cross-eyed just trying to look at the angel, so he focused on the other guy's shoulder instead, eyes trailing down along the clavicle, and then up against his throat.

"Embracing you."

"Right." Dean shook his head, tried very hard not to come back with some sort of biting retort. "And _why_ are you embracing me?"

The look Cas gave him suggested that Dean ought to know these things.

"Because it will make you feel better."

Okay. Corny, dorky, smushy, and utterly ridiculous, Castiel may have been. But there was no denying how those simple words struck an almost painful chord in Dean's heart.

"Oh."

He wrapped his arms around Cas and hugged back.

They stayed like that for a while, longer than what was probably absolutely necessary, but... it felt nice, and Dean would be damned if he was going to stop doing something that felt good for a change. For some reason, it was as if he'd not done something just outright _pleasant_ in what felt like years. He didn't care if it was corny or stupid or pathetic; not right now. He felt like shit, had been dragged through this whole future mess once before, and fuck it all, he wanted a hug!

Leave it to a little nerdy dude with wings to know exactly what he needed.

They hadn't had a heart-to-heart. They hadn't even really spoken a word after Castiel had gotten all touchy-feely and decided to express his emotions with physical contact. They hadn't moved very far from the hug, either, even once they'd disentangled themselves from the other's embrace and rocked awkwardly back on the heels of their feet.

So why Dean felt inclined to apologize to future-Cas, he would never know. But the inclination was there, nevertheless, and it was an itch he simply had to scratch.

He'd departed his Cas with a wave and a short explanation, and then had set off back towards the cabin they'd earlier left both future copies. Over an hour had passed; surely they'd knocked out all the kinks by now, right?

Calm in this assurance, Dean had traipsed on up to the cabin, taking his good time in getting there, and enjoying the scenery on the trip.

There wasn't much to see.

The trip was short.

His first thought was to go bursting through the doors with a regular loud entry, announce his presence outright, and demand a few private moments to talk to Cas and get a few things straightened out. He didn't want to spend the rest of his time here with the guy thinking Dean hated his guts, or something. That just wasn't right, and was something that could easily be rectified.

His second thought, however, was the hesitant perception that, hey, they might not be done talking in there, and if he went kicking in doors, he'd really ruin any kind of consolation the other Dean was trying to give. So he got the bright idea, instead, to creep up to the door, peek in briefly, and if all seemed well, he'd go ahead and push all the way through. Simple enough, and his intentions were good. Dean Winchester wasn't no fucking peeping tom.

The wooden steps creaked as he crept up them, his boots making nary a sound in his resolve to remain quiet. He could be stealthy when he wanted to be. At the top, he maneuvered around the front porch, avoiding various obstacles that got in his way, focusing so intently on not tripping and dying that he didn't notice the sounds coming from within the cabin.

Once he reached the door, he pushed it open lightly (unlocked, heh), and peered inside. It was dark, not even a single candle lit to break the solidity of grey on grey on black, so it took his eyes several moments to adjust. He blinked them rapidly, making out the blurry silhouette of two bodies, the faded edge of a table, and the jagged black line of a chair.

Oh, and Cas giving Dean a blowjob.

Three breaths later, Dean closed his eyes, shook his head lightly, then opened them again.

Nope. Blowjob still in progress.

He backed away slowly, crept back down the stairs, took a few calm steps out into the open night, and then proceeded to hyperventilate.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

In the morning, Yeager was dead.

The bullet wound in his chest was a conundrum, certainly, but that wasn't what had killed him. Or so said Cas, when both Dean's walked into the locked down cabin on the outskirts of camp that morning with Castiel in tow.

"He was already dead when I got here," he protested when future-Dean bitched about his stepping out of line, and that killing the hunter-turned-Croat had been _his_ job.

Dean, still furious, asked, "Well then why'd you put the damned bullet in him?"

And Cas shrugged.

"Better safe than sorry."

Dean deflated at that. He'd been the one to teach Cas that very phrase, after all, and the only thing safer than a dead Croat was a _shot_ dead Croat.

The fact still remained, however, that Cas had taken a romp to the holding cell to end the man Dean had been determined to kill himself, and though the situation was apparent, the reason behind it wasn't quite as clear. The man's reasoning could be hazy at times, so there was a possibility even Cas didn't know why he'd attempted to do the deed.

But Dean, the past one, had a pretty good inclination as to what had went down.

He'd spent all of the night before trying to scrub out the image of their mirror images' coupling from his mind, but some things were just impossible to un-see, no matter how much he tried. Any other time, he'd have snatched up a porn magazine and flipped through the blessed pages to try and take his mind off of what he'd been witness to, but, much like the shortage of toilet paper in the future, porn was equally as difficult to find.

First thing was first. When Dean got back to his own time, he was going to re-arrange his list of priorities, and add stock piling Busty Asian Beauties somewhere near the top.

But still, even standing there now, with both future versions bantering back and forth, halfway between an argument and halfway between friendly jest, he couldn't help but notice that they sounded like an old married couple. And it was freaky -- beyond belief freaky -- because even though none of it seemed possible, it still sort of made _sense_. Cas was the only one who'd stuck with him for so long, after all. If he lost his brother, his father-figure, and anyone and everyone else he ever cared about aside from his creepy angel friend... Well. He couldn't be held accountable for his actions. It was like an intricate system of dominoes. Once one toppled over, the rest fell into place.

Dean was so enthralled with the others' mindless conversation that he barely noticed Castiel creeping up beside him until their shoulders brushed. He nearly jumped out of his own skin, but managed a soft, croaked, "Hey," instead.

Castiel, too, was staring at the others, but at Dean's soft word, he pitched his head to the side and peered up at the hunter.

"Dean," he said by way of greeting, then turned his attention back to the other two people in the room.

A few minutes passed in which Dean became somewhat hyper aware of his proximity to the angel, and also, in the same instance, became somewhat hyper aware of what standing so close to Castiel was doing to his poor beating heart. It stuttered and fluttered and did all kinds of acrobatics inside of his chest, and he had to curse at it for several seconds straight just to get it to fucking stop.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asked, and when Dean looked over, the angel was staring up at him once again, this time his entire focus pinning Dean to the spot.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said, lying through his teeth, but he knew it was useless because, damn it all, Cas could _feel_ his emotions, couldn't he? And that was just plain fucking unfair.

Cas, blunt little guy he was, pointed this out.

"Why are you lying?" He sounded genuinely perplexed, as if the thought of conscious deceit was a completely foreign concept.

They'd been over this before, though, and Dean didn't really feel like giving his buddy another lecture on human nature, so he just shrugged instead.

"Don't know," he replied honestly, because he really _didn't_ know why he felt compelled to hide the fact that he wasn't entirely okay, except maybe to keep on keeping on, which was a very difficult thing to do when pity was hanging over his head in the guise of concern.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," the other Cas was saying, and suddenly Dean had a flashback of last night, of the brief image he'd been subject to, and how, yep, his underwear had been bunched up around his ankles, and, _okay okay_ , maybe it wasn't technically _him_ that future-Cas was molesting, but it was still his future- _self_ , and that was practically the same thing in Dean's book. Especially when they were look-a-likes, and it was impossible to tell one's subconscious the difference between twins.

Dean hadn't been very successful in quelling his rampant thoughts. Needless to say, he hadn't gotten very much sleep last night, but that was okay, because Castiel didn't sleep, period, and it was highly doubtful that the other two bothered to try and feign sleep at all.

Okay, thoughts derailing, back on track.

There was a dead man lying on the floor, after all.

"You said he was dead when you got here?"

Cas turned to him, his eyes a little more lucid than yesterday, and Dean suspected that was because he hadn't had time to dope up yet.

"Yep," Cas said, and though Dean couldn't entirely place the tone, he realized that it did sound a little different; a little more rigid, and clipped.

He hadn't gotten a chance to apologize. Right.

A part of Dean absolutely shuddered at the thought of being alone with that other guy for any extended amount of time, but in the end he did realize that he wasn't a fucking lightweight, that he'd hunted a lot of things bigger and badder than just your every day, average, used-to-be-an-angel man, and that, if push came to shove, he could hold his own against Cas.

But he wasn't entirely sure he would _want_ to. The thought of physically harming future-Cas made something stutter to a jolting halt the moment that idea flit inside his head. It made his stomach clench, and for some reason he instantly felt sick. The guy was just way too _fragile_ to harm. Castiel, sure, he could take a hit, but that was because he was an angel, and apparently angels were made out of steel and were wrapped in iron. Cas, though... he was _different_.

"Hey," Dean said suddenly, interrupting whatever it was Cas was saying -- he didn't know, he hadn't been paying attention.

He stepped forward, brushing Castiel's shoulder in passing without much notice, then reached forward and laid his hand on the other Cas' arm.

"We need to talk," he said lowly, and tried not to notice how all sets of eyes turned to him when those words left his mouth.

His other half didn't seem very pleased.

"You can talk later," he practically barked out, then reached in and snatched up Cas' other arm, jerking the man towards him. Dean held on fast to his half of future-Cas, narrowing his eyes and practically hissing with his tone of voice.

"No, we can't."

He tugged back, pulling Cas to him.

"Yes, you _can_."

Another tug in the opposite direction.

"This is _important_."

Cas stumbled towards past-Dean, blinking in sheer, utter confusion.

It was future-Dean who relented first. When he let go, Cas nearly toppled into the other Dean's arms, but stopped himself just in time, staring over at his Dean with wide, incomprehensible eyes.

"Easy, guys," he said when he noticed how both Deans were glaring at each other. Caught in the middle like that, he felt like he was burning up. "There's plenty of me to go around." He flashed a grin, then waved a vague gesture towards past-Cas.

Castiel stared. It wasn't an obtrusive, nosy kind of stare, but simply an act of habit and curiosity. The power play between Dean and Dean had been rather fascinating to watch. Both were stubborn, both were hard-headed, but it seemed future-Dean had enough diplomacy (or enough petulance) to finally relent his hold and allow whatever much-needed conversation Dean was planning on having with future-Cas.

Dean grinned in satisfaction when he won the little tug-of-war, but huffed in exasperation at Cas' comment.

"C'mon," he said forcefully, and started to drag Cas out of the cabin when Dean bodily stopped him by blocking the exit.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?" he asked, arms crossing over his chest to somehow make him appear bigger, more intimidating.

Dean was currently gripping Cas' arm so tight it might leave a bruise, which only meant he wasn't capable of crossing his arms and fluffing his plumage at the moment.

"Outisde," he said tightly.

Castiel could hear the sound of iron wills clashing.

"No, you're not."

Dean blinked, stared at himself.

"Why not?"

"Anything you can say to him, you can say to all of us."

Future-Dean was kind enough to sweep his arm towards Castiel, including him in on the argument. Castiel would have rather remained innocuous.

"Uh, no." Dean replied, then bulled his way forward and knocked his other half to the side, toting Cas along behind him. Cas merely canted his head back, gave a wicked little grin, then waggled his fingers in passing.

"Gotta go, see ya' soon," he said, then laughed as he was dragged out the door and future-Dean was left staring at the desolate, weather-worn wood.

The silence was dreadful. Thankfully, Castiel was too oblivious to really notice, and Dean was too cold-hearted to really care.

Odd events, those, when two people were left alone in a dank little cabin with no one else to keep them company except the dead body lying on the floor. The smell was starting to become intrusive, but neither figure paid it any mind. It would have to be cleaned up eventually, but now was not the time for the big picture. Now was the time for reflection, and self-loathing, and perhaps a little more whiskey, but Dean had left his bottle at his house, and he figured it was probably drained dry anyways, because Cas had drank a helluva lot last night.

Dammit.

Dean slumped into one of the few ratty old chairs in the room. Gravity pulled him, compelled him to curl his knees closer to the legs of the chair, for him to drop forward, head lax, shoulders tight, elbows sitting on his thighs, fingers curling upward to grip his hair. His face was hidden from view, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that he was struggling.

The silence may have currently been ignored, but it was still there, and it was still hot and heavy and terribly oppressive. Dean was choking, and he didn't even know it yet.

He sighed deeply into the crook of his arm, then started rubbing his thumbs in slow circles along his scalp. The motion was soothing, but mostly pointless. He couldn't garner comfort from himself; all sympathy had been wrung from his unwilling body years ago. It was no use to try and squeeze a rock for water.

He still felt eyes on him, and seriously thought about telling the angel to go fuck off, but he had to remind himself that the Castiel currently standing in the room was not the Cas he was used to.

Everything was so very jumbled up; logic and reason had been all shot to hell.

"You can go," he said instead, wondering, briefly, if this was at a point in Cas' time where he relied solely on Dean's commands to get him through his day-to-day routine. Maybe the angel didn't realize he was allowed to leave? There really wasn't any other reason he would hang around, right?

"I am aware," Cas said in reply. He didn't budge an inch.

Dean exhaled so loudly, he was halfway afraid his breath wouldn't come back to him.

"What do you want, then?"

He was good at cutting to the chase. He didn't have enough time for bullshit anymore. Everything ran on a schedule; tight and cluttered, beating and rhythmic. If one cog in the machine didn't turn at a certain hour at a certain day, then the entire mechanism might very well fall apart, and Dean simply couldn't afford for that to happen.

Truth was, he would've liked to just lie down and go to sleep; to take a nap and not wake up again. But he had other people to look after now, and even though he'd lost everything (Cas included, really), there were others out there that didn't deserve the same fate.

Yeager didn't deserve to die.

Dean was ashamed that he was relieved he hadn't had to kill the man.

How pathetic was that? He was such a poor excuse of a leader, but he was all they got, and damn, did they ever draw the short end of the stick. Dean Winchester, savior of humanity? Ha! He couldn't save his dad, couldn't save Ellen or Jo. He couldn't save Bobby, and he couldn't damn well save Sam. He couldn't save Cas. He couldn't even fucking save _himself_.

What a joke. The whole thing was one big fucking joke, with a dragging lead-up and a shitty punchline.

He was in the midst of mentally berating himself when the edge of a trench coat brushed against his knee, and he glanced up to find Castiel standing not three inches away. Personal space was a foreign concept to the angel, and even when Dean grumbled something about backing off before he was forced to punch Cas in the face again, his fingers loosened their hold of his own head and slowly fell to rest against his legs.

There was nothing intimidating about the Castiel standing in front of him now. _His_ Cas, the one who was world-weary and road-worn, would have pressed forward and used his proximity as a weapon; strategic, and frightening, and pushy. This Cas, though, he was little more than pensive, just a dash sympathetic. And wasn't that just the icing on the cake? Castiel could _sense_ his emotions, and the very thought made Dean want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

Because he was ashamed.

It was a stupid thing to feel, really. How else was he supposed to cope with the end of the world? If he hadn't warped his insides into something hard and terrible and sharp and biting, he would've died a long time ago, and everyone else would've died right along with him. His death wasn't just suicide -- it was murder.

But there it was. The hesitation, the wilting sense of degradation. It seared his insides like a hot iron, pressing into him, poking around at the scars he'd used to fill up the void all his loss had left behind. If he changed, if he morphed, if he _adapted_ , then he was spared the curse of feeling.

It was survival at its most basic understanding.

"What?" Dean said again, and didn't realize how he had straightened up and leaned so far back into his chair he was practically huddling against it in an effort to put some distance between him and the angel standing too close for comfort.

Castiel tilted his head to the side, regarded the other man for a long moment. To be honest, he hadn't really ever _stopped_ regarding this future version of Dean. He'd been fascinated the moment he'd laid eyes on the other's soul, and in a way, a little drawn, as if the writhing mass within was calling out to him. He'd always felt compelled to follow Dean, to obey him, to help him and seek out his consolation and wisdom on many matters, but this... this felt different.

This felt protective.

He was a little confused by the swell of emotion, because for one, he didn't really _feel_ emotion all that acutely, and for another, he'd not felt this sort of sympathy for Dean since that incident with Alistair, and even then that had only occurred when the hunter had been bruised and bloodied into a nearly unrecognizable state.

Castiel couldn't shake the feeling, however; couldn't quite keep himself from caring as much as he did.

Nor could he quite keep himself from laying a hand over Dean's shoulder and pressing inward that little bit that indicated an intent to comfort.

Dean shrugged him off immediately, groused something about keeping his hands to himself, but Cas only frowned and did it again, this time more firmly.

He could be stubborn, too, when he wanted to be. And as he'd found out earlier with his time's Dean, sometimes touch was a simple but effective means of communicating good intentions.

Castiel had nothing but good intentions for the many currently huddled almost pathetically in the chair. He didn't know what to do or say to fix him, but he had faith that those matters would resolve themselves if he simply kept trying.

Dean was a little taken aback. Not only had Castiel incited physical contact (which wasn't really uncommon nowadays, but he distinctly remembered it being far different several years ago), but he'd _insistently_ done so, and, what's more...

It was kind of working.

But only _kind of_ , because otherwise Dean would have been an emotional pushover.

As it was, it took very little out of him to lean into the touch, to loose his inhibitions and fall into the unearthly strength the other man provided. Dean wasn't used to this. It hurt him to realize just how much he'd missed it; missed the feeling of comfort, missed the acute sense of protection. Castiel used to be there for him. Castiel had stuck with him through everything, no matter how many times Dean had feared waking up to find the angel-turned-man gone; to hear that he'd packed up and headed out into the woods, never to be seen again. To find that, maybe, he'd killed himself; done something stupid like overdosed on purpose, or cut his wrists open and let them bleed onto the floor, or drank himself to death. Dean lived in a world of fear, because he knew he couldn't control Cas, and he knew the other man's presence did nothing but burden him even further with worry, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn't stop watching the rise and fall of Cas' shoulders with every inhale and exhale he took, couldn't persuade himself to leave Cas' side when they were on a mission together, couldn't help the uncoiling of fumbling nerves every morning he woke up and found Cas in the same cabin he'd deigned his own, unmoved, unhurt, unaffected.

Dean was so busy worrying about the physical, he'd completely disregarded the mental, the spiritual. Cas might have stayed, yeah, but he wasn't really _around_ anymore. His mind was too far gone, his thoughts spiraling anywhere but where Dean thought it mattered: Him. Them. The unspoken "us". The oft ignored "we".

Dean couldn't say anything to his rejection; he could hardly blame him.

Castiel anchored him. Castiel's hand, clamped along his shoulder, the bony wrist of his vessel digging against Dean's bare neck, it kept him planted firmly in his seat, in the here and the now. If Dean wandered too far, he would never come back. He'd stumble, and he'd trip, and he'd fall.

Just like Cas.

God, it hurt to think.

Dean leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a breath about as bone-deep as any breath could get. Castiel moved with him, kept safe within the confines of propriety, but pressed forward steadily, kept up their simple contact.

It was funny, too. Dean had felt so much more, had been subject to the heat of Cas, the muscles and the tension, the hard lines and soft skin, the even softer tongue. He knew Cas from the inside out, and yet Castiel's touch, the one here, the one standing just in front of him and staring down at him so heatedly that Dean could feel the burn of it dig into his chest, was so foreign, and so alien, and absolutely, one-hundred percent awe-inspiring.

He didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to feel -- hell, he hardly even wanted to breathe, to continue his existence with those tiny puffs of air. But there he was, and there Cas was, and when Dean wrenched his eyes open and peered up at the angel to do or think or say God-knew what, he found himself doing and thinking and saying things he was certain would send him right back down to Hell.

"Cas," he said, and cleared his throat where it felt thick and clumsy. "Come here."

It was a stupid thing to say. Castiel was already _there_ , already as close as he could get without toppling over into Dean's lap.

"There" wasn't close enough.

When Dean tugged down, jerked Cas towards him and offset his balance in a coldly calculated manner, he did it with the assurance that an angel -- a freakin' _angel_ \-- couldn't be jerked around by any man unless he _wanted_ to be manhandled.

So when Cas fell into his lap, when the other's knees buckled and slid easily, instinctively, around Dean's hips, Dean forced himself to calm his beating heart and go through with the act he had just started. He was standing at the top of an incline, peering down at the result below, something so far away he couldn't clearly make it out, and he'd just tipped the first rocky boulder over the edge, had just skipped the first smooth stone along the lake, and was now watching the affect, the way the boulder picked up speed, the way the ripples expanded and expanded and expanded until they faded against the backdrop of the deep.

He would wait for the crash later, would bask in the oil and the burn of twisted metal and screaming wreckage when the chance arose, but for now, there, with an angel pressed tight to his body and with frighteningly lucid shades of blue blinking down at him in mortified confusion, Dean chose to feel.


	3. The Butterfly Effect [3/3]

Cas was staring at Dean like he was the most interesting thing in the entire world, and really, it wasn't like Dean _wasn't_ used to the attention, but something about the way _this_ Cas stared at him was unnerving. It was borderline hungry, and it made Dean shiver from spine to shoulder. He couldn't shake the nervousness, the itchy sense that he was trotting through Camp Chitaqua towing around something treacherous; as if the thin wrist gripped between his insistent fingers was attached to the predator, and he was the prey.

He didn't like thinking those kinds of things, though, so instead he opted to completely ignore his gut instinct -- to quell the part of him that was screaming at him to fling Cas to the ground and make a run for it -- and drug the other man past the protective border of the camp, beyond the cabins, off the dirt road, and into the empty forest. Silence greeted them, quiet and serene, and really the whole setting was just way too peaceful for the kind of conduct Dean intended, but it was private, and he didn't want anyone else listening in on his crazy.

On his apology.

Dean didn't do that kind of thing often -- apologize. He was hard-headed and head-strong. 'Sorry' just wasn't in his vocabulary. But every once in a while he found the strength, found the will, to re-learn the word and spit it out onto the dirt like a filthy curse.

Sometimes he actually sounded genuine. But that only happened on one of his off days.

"Look," he began, finally releasing the other's wrist, but jerked to a halt when Cas flicked his fingers up and gripped the edge of Dean's sleeve. Dean stared at the offending appendage, at the point where he and Cas were connected, then dragged his gaze from the thin button-up blue of Castiel's shirt to the hazy, somewhat desperate eyes sticking to his body like tar.

"You're staying, right?" Cas licked his upper lip, cleared his suddenly dry throat.

"What?" Dean asked, and couldn't find the will within him to shake off the other's hold.

"You're staying tonight. You can't just leave." And now it sounded like a statement, a demand, all hint of a question leaving Cas' tone of voice.

"Well--" Dean hesitated, taken aback by the neediness he saw bubbling within the man latched onto his jacket sleeve. "Yeah. Yeah, I mean. It's not like I've got anywhere else to go."

Castiel visibly relaxed, let out a shuddering sigh before tugging on Dean's jacket and using his grip to propel him forward, nose-to-nose with Dean, invading his personal space in a manner more thorough, more _intimate_ than Dean was used to.

"Uh," Dean said nervously, clearing his throat and leaning back. His feet were rooted to the spot, incapable of movement.

"Then you're staying with me, right?"

Pushy, insistent. This version of Castiel was not above demanding the presence of something he wanted. He was not above force.

Dean's entire body seemed to jolt at the implication of those words, and last night, when he'd inadvertently become an unwilling voyeur, came careening back into his skull with the force of a freight train. He couldn't _not_ see Cas, now, on his knees, eyes wide and mischievous, hands sliding around the front of his pants with practiced alacrity.

He swallowed thickly at the vision, shook his head to rid himself of the thought.

Nope. No siree. Dean Winchester did _not_ just imagine his angel buddy on his knees in front of him, sucking his dick like the world was gonna end tomorrow. Absolutely not.

In this time, though, the world very well _could_ end tomorrow. So... yeah. When he thought about it -- and, hell, he'd had _plenty_ of time to think about it -- he could... maybe... sort of see why everything had led to this; to that particular point in his and Cas' relationship. Platonic slid into familial slid into carnal. It wasn't a difficult formula to follow. But it still left his head spinning, kept him reeling for an answer he was really much too afraid to ask.

 _Why?_

Of course he knew _how_ , but the 'why' was completely different. The 'why' threw a blanket over his nerves and smoothed out the jittery results of future-Cas standing so close to him. The 'why' left him curious and unrestrained. The 'why' was a pretty fucking dangerous thing to think, let alone ask.

The 'why' was currently breathing in his own air, living in his own personal space, every line synced up perfectly, every muscle poised to press forward, but still refrained, still considerate. Still nervous.

"You're staying with me." And there Cas went again, turning his questions into statements. It unnerved Dean how easy it was to let the man get away with something like that. If he just stood back and held his breath, he could let nature take its course, and allow the madness to unfurl beneath him.

But that wasn't the Winchester way, and aside from all of that, Dean had brought Cas out there for a reason.

"What? Not even gonna offer to buy me a drink?"

The sarcasm came easily -- rolled off of his tongue in a simplistic, instinctual manner.

Dean was somewhat stunned by how taken aback he was at Castiel's wide, unassuming grin. It wasn't drugged up, or doused in liquor, and for half a moment, for one quick second, Dean could have sworn he saw it reach the other guy's eyes before it fizzled out into nonexistence.

"You didn't buy _me_ a drink on _our_ first date."

If Dean had been drinking something, he would have done a spittake.

"Uh," Dean said quietly, lifting up his free hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Sorry?"

Cas tilted his head back, bared his teeth to the sky, and let out a long, solid laugh. It still surprised Dean to no end to see the other guy release his emotions in such vivid, revealing manners.

"That's okay," he said, his features settling into their normal, mellow look. "You can make it up to me."

At first, Dean thought he'd tripped. Gravity pulled him forward so suddenly, he couldn't help but stumble, and it was only a natural, unfortunate coincidence that he'd went and caught himself on Cas' lips. When his brain finally caught up with him, however, it became all too apparent that the ex-angel had pulled him forward almost violently, smashing their lips together in a vengeful embrace.

Cas was maleficent. He pushed insistently against Dean's mouth with his tongue, used his teeth, the scratch of stubble, the confusion of the moment to throw the other man off and overwhelm him with a flurry of movement. When Dean's lips remained clamped stubbornly shut, Cas growled low into the one-sided kiss, snaked his other hand up, then gripped the other's hair and jerked his head back abruptly. He was all force and frenzied motion, scraping the edge of his blunt canines down the newly bared throat, sucking on the jittering pulse that went crashing, beating, beneath thin skin.

"Cas," Dean said desperately, his hands rising up to claw at the other man's back. " _Stop_."

Castiel was on him in a second, his mouth sealed tight around Dean's own, but this time Dean's lips had been parted, his chest taking in ragged breaths, and Cas was given the opportunity to stick his tongue down the hunter's throat.

Dean grappled for some kind of purchase, but his senses were flickering in and out of each other, and he felt like he was drowning. Cas stole his air, sucked it right out of his mouth, then demanded more, pressed closer, grinding their bodies together as if trying to dive into Dean's bones and wear his skin.

When Dean was just about one-hundred percent sure he was going to die from asphyxiation, Cas finally broke contact.

"Stop," Dean managed to croak out again before those dry, unforgiving lips were pressed once more to his own.

Cas drank from Dean like he was a starving man dying in the desert. His hands clung tightly to the hunter, one at his arm, the other buried deep in his hair, and his body practically wallowed in the other's presence. One leg slid up, hooked around Dean's hip, dragged him closer to his insistent frame. Dean started to really struggle, then, his eyes wide and frantic and his body quaking from nerves. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

His struggles were to no avail. Cas clung tighter with every messy jerk, and at one point moaned lasciviously into Dean's mouth when their groins collided and their arousal was made known.

 _Their_ arousal. Cas wasn't ignorant to the press of taut fabric against the front of his jeans. Neither was Dean.

Cas pulled back, regarded Dean for a moment, then smirked.

Dean shook his head, halfheartedly tried to pull away, but the other man's fingers were clasped too tightly around his arms.

"Uh," Dean said. "This isn't what it looks like."

"Uh-huh."

Dean was frantic. His eyes darted left, then right. They were surrounded by trees, isolated from the rest of the camp.

"Let me go," he said.

"You could go if you wanted to go," Cas retorted.

Cas wasn't a lightweight, but Dean was stronger.

Dean was about to pull back, but he waited a moment too long, and something in Cas' demeanor shifted. His dull blue eyes sharpened, brightened, and with a resounding _whoosh_ of air, Dean was slammed forcefully against a tree.

The rough scratch of bark dug into the hunter's back, making him feel itchy and uncomfortable. Dean's eyes were wide, staring at the man in front of him, trying to understand what was happening; trying to understand the warm slide of rough palms along his sides, the brush of searching fingers tapping atop the waistband of his pants, the way Cas lowered until he was kneeling in front of Dean.

When the pants started to come off, Dean jolted.

"Cas, _stop_. I don't _want_ this!"

The hands paused but didn't move.

"No," Cas said, then glanced up. "But you _need_ it."

  


 **~*~*~*~**

When Dean woke up, he was in bed with Cas.

And Castiel.

And dick-Dean.

His mind instantly tried to reconcile the jump in time.

Flashes of what could best be described as something blatantly pornographic kept flitting before his eyes. The brush of a tongue. The soothing caress of enveloping heat. His fingernails digging into the rough edges of a tree. Contraction and release. The fold of a smaller body holding him upright, tugging on him, goading him to follow. They'd collapsed into a giant bed the next moment, and Dean only held vague recollections of a blurry conversation before he'd been shuffled closer to Cas and something warm and comfortable had been pressed tight against his back.

He was still trying to blink back sleep in the here and now when the sound of familiar voices rose above him.

"Frotting?" came the rumble of a chest right beside him, followed by a quick chuckle. "We got as far as a blowjob."

There was a grumble, and then the entire bed shifted.

"Don't be jealous," said the voice Dean now recognized as future-Cas. "I'll make it up to you."

It was stupidly reflexive, but he couldn't help it.

Dean curled his legs, gripped the front of Cas' shirt between searching fingers, and buried his head against the other's chest.

 _No,_ he thought as loudly as he could. _Mine._

The arm that slid around his waist was both comfortable and thrilling.

Problem was, it came from behind.

When Dean blinked open his bleary eyes, he glanced behind him to find Castiel -- the angelic one -- staring at him in that weirdly familiar way.

That was also about the time that he noticed they were both bare-assed naked, while their future selves were still almost fully clothed.

Dean groaned, shuddering at the warmth that surrounded him from both sides. It was way too much, way too fast. He didn't know how to react to it, so he figured it would go away if he just fell asleep again.

Which turned out to be a difficult thing to do when Castiel's dick was pressed against his backside.

Dean swallowed thickly, clenched his eyes more tightly shut, then shook his head.

He couldn't believe this. He couldn't fucking _believe_ this.

"Looks like you got your orgy, Cas," he said, voice grating against his own ears.

"I usually do," came the humorous reply.

Castiel, the one behind Dean, moved back. Or, well, he _tried_ , but he was blocked in by another body. The steady warmth of future-Dean was enveloping the angel from behind. The scratch of worn fabric pressed along Castiel's body, a rough hand splayed heavily across his chest.

Castiel could break away without a second thought, but that would leave Dean vulnerable and exposed to both of their future selves.

And besides, Castiel… didn't really want to move.

Dean was warm against his body. He wasn't soft, and he didn't curve or dip, but the lines of his body were familiar. Every bone, every vein, every single insignificant blood cell, everything about Dean right down to his atoms was familiar to Castiel.

Castiel had put him back together. He'd felt the chill of Dean's cold bones gripped tight between his fingers; had pressed and pulled and manipulated them until they heated up. Until the flesh re-grew and that most important spark of life had flared back into existence.

Castiel _knew_ Dean, and Castiel, at that moment, was compelled to _touch_ Dean. To know him a little bit more.

There was only silent encouragement from the future version of Dean laying beside Castiel. The angel reached out, ran a hand along _his_ Dean's back, felt the shudder of surprise and the pull of arousal. He did it again just to _feel_ it again, gluttonous in his need for something more.

"Cas," Dean mumbled, talking to the one from his time.

"Yeah?" the future one replied.

"Dick," said future-Dean, giving Cas a _look_.

"You're one to talk," laughed Cas, then something wicked flit across his features.

Before anyone on the bed could make another move, Cas reached forward towards his past self and wrapped a possessive hand around the angel's shoulder.

"Hey," he said, tugging. "C'mere."

Castiel looked up, blinked slowly, then glanced at past-Dean.

Cas glanced down as well, locking gazes with a bleary-eyed past version of the Dean he was used to.

"Do you mind?"

Dean looked up at him, confused.

Sighing, future-Cas slung his leg around past-Dean's body and straddled him, bending down to take his lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Dean struggled for a moment -- force of habit -- but relaxed after a moment more, arching into the kiss and showing, perhaps unwillingly, how very much he liked the _taste_ of Cas. The hint of stale booze and the bite of recreational drugs. That heady scent of incense that seemed to permeate the other man; the bony fingers that slid along his forehead and brushed back his hair.

The kiss ended slowly, the last fading edges of it seeping from between their combined lips like a memory. Dean smiled up at the man straddling him. Cas grinned down at him, leaned in, nipped the very tip of Dean's nose, then turned his attention to the left; turned the full brunt of his hazy gaze on past-Cas.

"Your turn," he said, then leaned in with very little warning and enveloped Castiel's lips with his own.

Both Deans looked at each other.

"Way to be a narcissist," past-Dean said. He shifted around, still acutely aware of the body holding him down to the bed.

Cas was too busy molesting Castiel's mouth to answer.

"Looks like they don't even need us," future-Dean said, his voice turning wry.

Past-Dean took that moment to point out the fact that he was naked.

"Why are you guys still dressed?" he asked, eyes still trained to the past-Cas/future-Cas action going on right in front of him.

"Because you guys are easy?" shot back his future-self.

Dean was trapped beneath the body of an unforgiving version of the Castiel he was used to. He figured then was as good a time as any to sit back and reflect on how the hell he'd wrangled himself into a situation like that. He was laying naked on a bed with three other men, one of which was _himself_ , and he was still way too groggy to piece together the reasons why he wasn't shoving Cas off of him and making a beeline for the door.

He figured the only reason his limbs remained patiently inert was the very simple fact that he was way too damned comfortable to be bothered to move.

Comfortable, as it were, playing submissive to the weight of another man straddling his waist and rubbing against him in ways Dean had never dared imagine.

Cas had shown him something last night. He remembered that much. Every memory was but a foggy recognition in his brain, but the sensations were still there, and the truth behind those carnal feelings were up and ready to smack him in the face with the brunt of it all.

Cas was kissing Castiel, and Dean found that really, _really_ sexy.

The future would make a voyeur out of him yet.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Castiel woke up sandwiched between two warm Deans.

But that wasn't the important part.

The important part was that Castiel _woke up_.

Which was an amazing feat, considering that angels didn't ever go to sleep, so far as he knew.

He blinked back the odd sensation, and felt an acute laziness in his bones that he couldn't quite shake. He stayed still for a moment, laying there, listening to the sound of the others breathing until the simple rhythm was broken by a quick chuckle from behind.

"You should stretch," said a voice that sounded like Dean, except gruffer, darker. The sadness from before was still there -- Castiel had the sneaking suspicion that it was _always_ there -- but it was being held at bay. An overarching lightness tinged the tone, and a rough hand rose up to rest protectively along his side.

His bare side.

"Stretch," said the other Dean again, and Castiel did as told, forcing limbs that were not his to pull upward, moving his legs downward, allowing his spine to straighten, then relax.

"Feels nice, huh?"

Castiel nodded, then looked to his left and straight into the face of a sleeping Dean.

Also naked.

Castiel wasn't used to feeling human emotions, but something spiked in him then that was absolutely, one-hundred percent undeniable.

He pushed back against the body behind him while reaching out in the same instant. His fingertips made contact, and then he pulled back.

"How?" he said, looking behind him.

Future-Dean shrugged.

"Does it really matter?"

  


 **~*~*~*~**

In the end, it turned out that it didn't.

Dean learned a thing or two about Castiel. He learned where each erogenous zone on his body was, and how to exploit them. He learned that the angel's breath hitched when he touched him just _so_ , and that Castiel had a habit of staring at him when a normal person would have closed their eyes at the build-up of pleasure. He found out that Castiel like the push of pressure, that he _felt_ it more when it was hard, and that there really wasn't any need to be gentle.

Dean learned a thing or two about himself, too. He learned that he really liked it when Castiel dropped his stoicism and allowed that slow, lazy smile to spread across his face. He learned that the angel was perfectly attuned with his own sense of pleasure, and that if Dean thought it loud enough, Castiel would hear it. He found out that he didn't really mind laying beside Castiel, that he enjoyed laying _beneath_ him, and that even if he couldn't see anything different, Dean could certainly _feel_ the distinctly inhuman parts that made up the angel's being.

Cas learned some things, too, by watching his past self see and experience for the first time that sudden, raging spark of desire. He saw the newness of it, the hope both of them still had.

When he looked up and locked eyes with his own Dean, the "future" one, he saw that Dean saw it, too.

No, it didn't really matter how they'd gotten there. And it didn't really matter how long they'd be there.

All that mattered was that they _were_ there.

  


 **~*~*~*~**

Chuck had the headache to end all headaches.

And his mind was overrun with porn.

 _Gay_ porn.

He would have to have a word with Dean after they finally, ahem, _settled down_. It was annoying how the hunter sometimes forgot that Chuck was a Prophet, and could therefore see everything the fearless leader did.

 _Everything_.

And here he'd thought killing Yeager was the height of his woes.

He'd had to do that, though, otherwise Dean and Cas wouldn't have bothered to try to mend their relationship that last little bit. Everything was a catalyst to everything else. The flap of a butterfly's wing created a tsunami, the first tip of the dominos started a chain reaction, yadda-yadda-yadda.

Point was, he was going to need some heavy liquor very soon if the boys in his visions didn't slow down.

Seemed Cas had gotten his orgy after all.

 **~*~*~*~  
THE END  
~*~*~*~**


End file.
